


Lockstep

by doublejoint



Category: One Piece
Genre: Established Relationship, Future Fic, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 05:40:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29729160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: They're in lockstep, but it’s not like Zoro doesn’t have room to fit himself in.
Relationships: Eustass Kid/Killer/Roronoa Zoro
Kudos: 10
Collections: February Ficlet Challenge 2021: Apocalypse No





	Lockstep

**Author's Note:**

> For Day 26 of the February Ficlet Challenge: Wipeout

The cutlass in Kid’s hand looks cheap and tacky, but it’s mostly because of the hilt. The jewels are probably fake, not because Zoro’s some kind of gemologist but because of the way they sit off-center in their places, some of them obviously glued down. The cheap alloy is flaking rust on the end like dandruff, and it looks like it would be uncomfortable to hold for very long. Kid turns it over, his thumbnail scraping off some more rust, the dull orange standing out against his black nail polish. 

“What do you think?”

“The blade itself is decent,” says Zoro. “With a new hilt it might be respectable.”

Kid smiles, tosses the blade into the air and grabs the end in his other hand, metal curling around metal. He pulls at the hilt with the hand that had been holding it, twisting until it snaps off, leaving a roughly-severed end, and tosses the hilt aside.

Killer sighs, quietly enough that Zoro can hear it but Kid might not (and if he does, he ignores it); even without the indicator Zoro would get the impression that Kid does this kind of thing a lot, leaves parts scattered everywhere just like every other part of his ship, littered with half-finished projects and old screws. This room, though, is fairly tidy. They have so many weapons packed into the far end, but they’re all approximately organized by type. Kid brandishes the blade, but especially given the size of his arm it’s more of a dagger than a sword, more suited to him. He tosses it back into his right hand, magnetizing and snapping it to his wrist before it cuts into him. He could get a lot of force, driving that blade into something, and it’s so easy to see where the appeal lies for him it’s nearly self-explanatory. 

Zoro’s never been fond of daggers (he’s made do with them when he’s had to, but it’s been several years since then) or really, any kind of blade that’s not a katana, but watching Kid, he still wouldn’t want that for himself, but the idea in general snaps into something more clear, like he’d been seeing it through a spyglass just out of focus. Killer, too, is watching Kid, the front of his mask pointed straight toward Kid’s face. Zoro would bet his smile’s a little unwound from its tight grip on his face, that his eyes are bright and wide behind his bangs, things he’s seen in rare glimpses, but wants more of. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but, no, Killer looks at Kid like that too often, even given the small sample size Zoro’s drawing from. 

Killer turns his head to face Zoro; the straw in his drink swivels as he adjusts his hand, as if it’s a long-necked animal turning to look at him, too, but then it swings away. Killer holds out the drink, as if he’s offering.

“Oh. Sure.”

From here, it smells overwhelmingly of rum; when Zoro leans in and closes his mouth around the straw it smells a little sweeter. It’s not enough of a warning when the sugar hits his teeth; Zoro clamps down around the straw to stop himself from drinking any more. What the hell?

“It’s so fucking sweet.”

“It’s a cocktail,” says Killer, adjusting his grip on the mug again.

Zoro grimaces. “I like booze that tastes like booze.”

Kid laughs, and Killer does, too, quietly, like he might have laughed anyway if he could stop himself. 

“Gimme some, too,” Kid says, but Killer tucks the mug closer to his body.

“You’ll chug the whole thing.”

Kid drops the broken blade onto the floor and crosses his arms. Killer sticks the straw through a hole in his mask.

“I’ll go get us something.”

“You’ll get lost,” says Kid.

“I know where the kitchen is,” says Zoro.

Kid follows him into the cramped hallway, anyway; it’s tall enough to leave plenty of clearance over the top of Kid’s hair, but too narrow for the two of them to walk side-by-side. Part of that’s the way Kid takes up space, but it feels like the rooms on either side are expanding into the hallway. Maybe they had; the belly of this ship feels like it’s been built addition-by-addition, pieces ripped out and replaced. But if Kid had done it himself, he probably would have bragged about it. The hallway separates, and Zoro turns right, but Kid tugs him back, slipping his hand into Zoro’s.

“Wrong way.”

(He would have gotten there eventually.)

Kid rifles through the cabinets, shoving bottle after bottle onto the counter, rum and wine and whisky and more rum. He pulls out a bottle of sake, sealed, and holds it out to Zoro. It’s cool, just the right temperature; Zoro twists open the cap as Kid opens and shuts various drawers, looking for the rest of whatever he needs to make Killer’s sweet cocktail. He makes it like a busy bartender, barely looking at the glass as he picks up the next thing, a dash of this and a dash of that and a squeeze of lime; he’s clearly made this drink many times before. It’s obvious, even when Zoro’s with only one of them, how well they fit together, how much they’re in lockstep, but it’s not bad. It’s not like Zoro doesn’t have room to fit himself in. 

Zoro carries Killer’s drink back, but Kid tucks his free arm around Zoro’s waist. 

When they return to the weapons hold, Killer is twirling a battle axe in each hand, and it’s easy to picture him driving forward like that, a total wipeout of his opponents, each head of each axe edged in blood. Kid’s grip tightens; he’s probably thinking about that, too, or something like it. (If there’s anything Zoro envies them, it’s years of uncomplicated battle alongside each other, no tenuous alliance or momentary truce stitched together beneath their feet as they rush forward. But he wouldn’t trade what he has for that, so it’s not really envy after all.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
